Brian KoppelmanПодлинная учетная запись

2)At the time, I wasn’t thinking about its utility, the ways in which it shaped or influenced me, any more than I’d think about how playing basketball 4 days a week kept me in some semblance of shape.

3) But being engaged w fiction all the time—serious books, less serious books—meant that I was in a constant conversation w myself about what mattered. Not what mattered in the instant. But what mattered inside, over the long haul. About the consequences of actions.

4) About rare kindnesses. About meanness.

5) somewhere in there, I happened to meet one of the world’s best novelists. He was 20 years older than me, about the age I am now, and he said: it gets harder to read fiction as you get older. I didn’t understand it. Couldn’t conceive of it.

6) But now I know what he meant. And it goes to the heart of why fiction matters. Fiction stirs you up in a way nothing else can. It forces you inward, then forces your eyes to see the world around you, too, clearly, if for only a moment. Forces you to see who hurts and why.

7) And it forces you to grapple with impermanence. With death. And its ramifications. And asks you this question: if we’re all gonna die, what is worth living for? Who is worth living for? What will you do with your time.

8) A friend asked me today, if I wanted those novel recommendations to clear my head. To take my mind off my show, Billions. And yes, sure, that, too. But what I wanted and needed more was to dive deep. To risk being that unsettled. To remind myself of my brief place here. Now.